The Aisles in Between
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "It was funny, but before he had even heard of Watchmen and civilian costume crime fighting, he had always figured that First Aid kits and well stocked medical cabinets were simply metaphors for the well prepared den mother."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Watchmen or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Warnings:** This is a story that connects to the movie-verse version of Watchmen. It is meant to connect to the universe of this fandom _before_ the Keene Act (Cannon 1977). *****I see this fiction as a sort of snapshot moment in both characters lives. One of those normal, relatively everyday moments that I figured might make an interesting character study. This is a Daniel centric-fic, with light Nite Owl II/Rorschach slash. Not your cup of tea? I suggest you pass it by. Still with me? Fabulous!

**Authors Note #1:** Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

_**The Aisles in Between**_

_**Chapter 1**_

He managed to make it into the store just before the heavens opened, with the first few dappling drops all but chasing him inside as he slipped through the Pharmacy's front doors. Entering with an ominous flare of flickering power and the distant rumbling of far off thunder as the doors hushed closed behind him.

Too caught up in the close victory, he barely registered the somewhat scandalized noise coming from the cashier closest to the door when his entrance let in a powerful gust of wind and rain. Instead, somewhat fastidiously, he adjusted the hang of his coat, smoothing down his collar and running a hand through his wind mussed curls as he thoroughly enjoyed the sudden reprieve from the muggy spring weather.

_It looked like they were in for it alright._

Ignoring the jarring, day glow coloured advertising, he crossed directly towards the stack of hand carts, fingers already slipping off his fogged up glasses, wiping them unobtrusively on a free shirt sleeve as he went. Inwardly cursing when his fingers slipped across the slick, rain beaded surface, nearly dropping them completely on the unforgiving laminate below.

It was both the lingering soreness in his chest and the depressingly empty nature of his medical cabinet that had brought him here. He could tell that the injury was already well on the mend, with the acute pain of only a few hours previous having subsided into an angry maw of vicious looking bruises and muscle sprains. It was a condition that had only been aggravated by the fact that his ribs were still sporting a few unwanted souvenirs from a particularly nasty fight the night before. When a gang of would be street thugs had not taken kindly to the fact that both Rorschach and himself had caught them all red handed, breaking into a bank on initiation night. It just figured that one of the stupid sons of bitches would manage to land blow with a crowbar that scored across the entirety of his damaged rib cage, further inflaming the tender, but healing injury.

_Cocked up little bastards._

Though since Rorschach had all but round house kicked the little unmentionable into a trash bin on his behalf, he figured that at the end of things, the offence had been properly rectified. With the man circling around to help him up before they dove right back into the fray. _Side by side and fists-a-flying.._

It was funny, but before he had even heard of Watchmen and civilian costume crime fighting, he had always figured that First Aid kits and well stocked medical cabinets were simply metaphors for the well prepared den mother. Something that you generally always forgot you had, and thus never found the opportunity to use. Like those little fire extinguishers one often keeps under the kitchen sink. Mouldering into relative obscurity under a thick layer of dust and grime until a year or two goes flying by and _just_ when you manage to _somehow_ set the Christmas roast on fire, and remember that you actually have it, you realize that the damn thing is close to five years expired.

_It was a fact that he ironically knew from personal experience.._

But now, what with the rather violent nature of his newly adopted profession, such things had come to hold all the necessity and precedence as the sole life preserver aboard a doomed passenger liner. They had literally _everything_ a busy Watchman needed, save for the occasional dose of morphine or anaesthetic. Of course, that was an effect that Rorschach, ever the unconventional problem solver, seemed to prefer solving with a swift blow to the back of the head rather then bandying about with the real thing.

_Again something that he unfortunately knew from personal experience._

He grimaced at the mere memory. Recalling the hot rush of warm crimson streaming down from the torn flesh of his thigh, the sight of sliced open Kevlar peeling away like a second skin, the melding colors stark and horrible as static suddenly overtook his vision. And the last thing he knew before the lights went out was the sensation of Rorschach's harsh pants ghosting along the span of his cheek, his voice pitching strangely, all based tones and discomforted inflections as they echoed in his greedy ears.

The gash had only just missed the femoral artery. And once he had recovered, it had taken them a few tense days, ripe with a bit too much overly familiar man-handling before they were eventually able to get over it. _Admittedly, it had definitely been a close call. A bit too close if he was being honest._

But he shook the errant thought away, suddenly all too aware of the brush of his trousers as they rubbed across the lightly raised scar tissue, the earthy brown fabric crowning the outline of the close row of impeccably neat stitching from through the thin cloth. He had never realized that Rorschach's hands, hands that had caused such carnage and destruction could be channelled into something gentle, and almost painfully delicate..

'_Enough.'_ He told himself sternly. Clearing his throat pointedly, and glaring over at the display of hypoallergenic wound cream with notable determination. _No sense in thinking thoughts like that. God knows nothing good ever came out of them…_ He coughed into his collar, neck flushing a brilliant shade of near puce as his irritation and confusion rose.

…._Besides, with the way they had both being going lately, he knew it never hurt to be prepared…._

He headed straight towards the medical treatments aisle and soon attracted the attention of the rather nosey cashier from the front. Who was now eying his quickly growing mound of purchases with a distinctly suspicious air. Though, in the woman's defence, he supposed that it wasn't every day that a fully grown man walks in from the street and proceeds to practically buy out the store's entire selection of gauze strips and medical tape.

_Apparently the old adage still held true, different strokes for different folks.._

He arched a surprised brow when the sound of the rain pinging off the stores tin shingled roof suddenly increased into an audible downpour. _Perfect. _But even that term didn't quite seem to do the sound justice. This was a veritable _monsoon! _With the metallic clackity-clack morphing into a brazened roar, drowning out the radio entirely as the sound seemed to only grow and grow.

_God he hated spring._

He was just musing over the rather overwhelming selection of antiseptic brands when out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a sopping wet blur of fire red and forest green looming just outside the store's wall length windows. And after he pushed his glasses further up against the bridge of his nose, he turned just in time to watch as the homeless man from the newspaper stand across the street slipped through the stores automatic doors..

The man slumped in with muted fan fair, stubbornly walking with the same, evenly measured pace as men and women alike pushed briskly past him, holding sodden newspapers above their heads and complaining loudly about the sudden downpour as they edged carefully around him.

_Almost as if he carried some sort of disease that they desperately didn't want to catch…_

He wasn't sure exactly which side to take however, when he realized that even from the distance the man smelt remarkably reminiscent of a wet dog. .._With mange. _In fact he acted like one as well, doing absolutely nothing to belay the impression as he shook the moisture out of his hair and threadbare brown suit like a stray mutt coming in from out of the rain. His olive shirt darkened to a near coal black hue as crooked fingers raked through his short neon red hair, the strands sticking up like unruly arrows from his freckled scalp. Not even so much as twitching in discomfort when his soaked sneakers made an atrocious, and completely offensive squelching noise as he stalked down the store's main aisle.

And much like dominoes, the man's rather unseemly entrance and indeed likely his appearance as well, gained him the attention of the cashier at the register. Now too busy with giving the other man the stink eye as he dripped all across the pristine, overly waxed floors, then to pay his somewhat questionable purchasing habits any more mind.

_The unexpected reprieve from the near constant scrutiny was almost akin to a physical sort of release. He'd never quite been comfortable with the scrutiny of others. Regardless of if was merited or not._

But if the man noticed, or even cared he gave no outward sign. His brilliant, but still inscrutable blue eyes doing a quick circuit of the place before crossing immediately towards the aisle closest to his position by the door. Almost as if it were a conscious, tactical decision rather then an off hand personal choice. _And wasn't that just a thought?_

When he caught sight of him next, in between crossing over to the next aisle to linger over choices of anti fungal wound fillers and packing gauze, he found the man deeply immersed in the hair coloring section, his lips twisted in a disquieted expression that could have meant anything from outright horror to unmediated consideration.

Indeed the man was gazing at the hair dyes with such focus and sincerely that he was half tempted to actually believe him, despite knowing full well that the man was likely only looking for a reprieve from the increasingly foul weather. Privately he felt strangely appeased by that fact. After all, in his book, anyone sporting _that_ degree of unique natural color had full merit to flaunt it.

_How would one even go about classifying that color anyway? Red? Orange? Sunset crimson under a smothering band of high flung pollution and fog? It was nearly impossible to tell. It was almost as if, much like everything else surrounding the mysterious man, that the definition itself was being deliberately elusive..and indeed quite indefinable._

He smiled internally at the thought before turning back towards his quarry, throwing in two packages a piece of antiseptic cream and isopropyl alcohol for good measure, recalling the time when Rorschach had sliced the back of his calf open on that rusty pipe along the south alley of 193rd and Saint Nicholas Avenue. He had had to practically _sit_ on the man in order to get him to stay still long enough to dab on a splotch of antiseptic and stitch up the wound.

_Oh right..That reminded him, he needed a new suture kit as well.._

He worked his way through a quick mental checklist, ticking off the items with a few unconscious flicks of his fingers as he went. _It was actually surprisingly lengthily this time. _Even Hollis had mentioned something about a Sea Salt soak on his last visit, recommending it as the cure all for sore muscles and persistent bruises.

The older man apparently swore by it. But privately he was somewhat less then convinced. _For one, he could count on both hands the number of baths he had actually head after moving into the Brownstone…_ But inevitably he figured that it couldn't hurt to indulge the older man.

_After all, Hollis had never steered him wrong before._

He was just arching his neck to read the aisle sign above his head as he retrieved his buggy, weaving his way aimlessly through the sparse afternoon crowds on his way to the aisle the next one over, when like an angel falling clear from heaven, that was when he _finally _saw her…

**A/N #1:** Please let me know what you think, and indeed if I should continue? This is much less of an action based story then I am used to writing, and it is my first Daniel-centric story to boot, so I am unsure about the response. Thus, if there is interest I will most definitely continue it! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

**Glossary:**

*_Isopropyl Alcohol: _Is rubbing alcohol for cleaning and sterilizing wounds. A basic must in self wound care.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Watchmen or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Warnings:** This is a story that connects to the movie-verse version of Watchmen. It is meant to connect to the universe of this fandom _before_ the Keene Act (Cannon 1977). *****I see this fiction as a sort of snapshot moment in both characters lives. One of those normal, relatively everyday moments that I figured might make an interesting character study. This is a Daniel centric-fic, with light Nite Owl II/Rorschach slash. Not your cup of tea? I suggest you pass it by. Still with me? Fabulous!

**Authors Note #1:** Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to all comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

_**The Aisles in Between**_

_**Chapter 2**_

There was a woman standing halfway down the aisle, unobtrusively perusing the feminine hygiene products. She was a pretty little thing, all lithe lines and generous curves. Her tiny, immaculately painted nails flashing a demure navy hue in the bright overhead lights as her long cream coloured overcoat still dripped with a steady trickle of rain water, the stream pebbling sporadically over her expensive, but still conservative looking business pumps whenever she made to move.

_And good lord was she a knock out.._

She had the same silk brown hair that he'd lately come to identify with Laurie. Hell, she even had the exact same smile as well, glancing over with a half embarrassed wink from behind a shining sheath of lightly curled hair. Her delicately smoked eyes and glistening, pink pearl lips completing the veritable masterpiece with a defiant, but not completely over done flair. In a word, she was perfect. _Absolutely stellar. _

He smiled back, his lips almost tripping over themselves in haste as he resignedly cursed both himself and his habitually shy nature when he felt his cheeks begin to heat at the attention. _He never could just make things easy on himself, could he?_

But he blinked in surprise however when she favoured him with a distinctly appreciative glance. Magnanimous eyes lingering down the length of him from head to toe, _once_..and then _twice _before canting her hips. Her glance inviting as she shook back a few errant, honey brown curls in his direction.

_Now, he might be somewhat inexperienced with the inherent complexities of the fairer sex, but he certainly knew __**that**__ look when he saw it. _

He was just shoring himself up to do something about it. Thoughts ranging from anywhere to striking up a spontaneous conversation about the weather (which already sounded far better in his head then he knew it would aloud) to unobtrusively searching his pockets for scraps of paper to write down his phone number, when rather unexpectedly the red haired man, ratty clothes still sodden through and decidedly dog eared, stalked purposefully around the corner.

_..And for some utterly daft reason, it felt remarkably as though all the air had suddenly been sucked right out of the room.._

The man stopped dead. Bright eyes flicking from him, to the woman now standing only a few tantalizing meters away as an unfathomable expression smouldered to life in the depths of his decidedly icy blue eyes. And in spite of himself he found his attention switching almost seamlessly. Unconsciously caught on the impressive, and almost surreal nature of the man's presence. _All but screaming with raw strength and barely tapped potential._ Plagued all the while by the unshakable feeling that he was suddenly missing out on something that was not only exceedingly obvious, but life-alteringly important as well..

In the end the man didn't even have to say a word, simply staring her down until the woman's face visibly fell. Her pristine, cream coloured hem swirling in unsteady indignation as she hurried down the aisle and out of sight. Her perfect, ivory face flushed a brilliant, angry hue as she glanced behind her suspiciously, as if half expecting to find the man all but nipping at her heels.

_Funny..Rorschach tended to have that exact same effect on people._

He watched her go, recognizing a strategic retreat when he saw one, her high heels clicking rapidly on the slick tiles as she made for the door, the moment strangely dramatized by a sudden clap of encroaching thunder that rattled the items on display. The sensation vibrating up through his bones, and sparking along the nerve endings, all but humming with an unrelenting jolt of pent up electric charge.

_It was a queer coincidence to be sure…_

He was fully intending to call the man on unjust interference, thinking somewhat unsavoury thoughts about cock-blocking and inherently foul tempered people in general. But when he turned to face him, the man was simply _gone. _With nothing, not even the ghosting echoes of his retreating footsteps to mark that he ever been there at all.

_Now that was just completely beyond the pale..._

But rather then succumb to righteous indignation and try to chase after her, he found that he could do nothing else but remain where he was, a bemused smile spreading clear across his face as he dropped an extra package of burn soothing cream into the cart by mistake. Because unbidden, the whole affair had suddenly reminded him of the moment nearly two months ago now, when Laurie had cornered him as he had exited the men's room at the tale end of their monthly Watchmen meeting.

This time it had been staged at one of Adrian's more obscure townhouses, in one of the older neighbourhoods in the Bronx. Yet it still somehow managed to completely out shine the Brownstone in a way that was startlingly reminiscent of the comparison between a prized war horse and a common donkey caught far past its prime.

…_It was truly amazing what Interior decorators could do with the insides of substandard housing developments these days.._

He was pretty sure that the conversation had something to do with fixing a faulty zipper on her suit, but he couldn't be completely sure, having been rather…_distracted_ at the time. His eyes too busy catching on the way her long pony tail had framed the graceful slope of her collarbone. The perfectly uniform ends trailing easily across the length of her flawless skin every time she moved, the rhythm itself almost hypnotic in nature..

Still, the fact remained that he had felt distinctly uncomfortable, not to mention insidiously torn as Laurie had begun to seriously encroach on his personal space. Her eyes half mast and alluring, highlighted with a sultry smudge of black and silver colour that generously complimented the bright colors of her costume. Because at any moment he half expected to see Doctor Manhattan floating effortlessly around the corner, hand already upraised to blast his atoms all the way to Jersey state and back before he even so much as had a chance to open his mouth.

But like a wireless receiver ciphering out into code, Rorschach had simply materialized at his shoulder, appearing from one seamless moment to the next with the same disconcerting, and almost effortless grace that seemed to all but personify his ever perplexing character.

And with a distinctly reproving cant of his head, despite being far shorter then the both of them; he somehow managed to actually _look down_ at her as he spoke.

"Your_** ride**_ seems to be looking to leave Miss Juspeczyk." He growled, staring at her pointedly from his protective stance at his shoulder. Standing a bit closer then was strictly necessary as he settled his hands behind his back, acting for all the world completely unaffected and poised.

The man put entirely too much emphasis on the word _ride_ then was strictly decent, and as Laurie stalked off, her long pony tail flicking in obvious contempt and foul temper, it was all he could do _not_ to burst out laughing right then and there. He had been so caught up in the sheer hilarity of the moment, that as they set out, he had to lean up against one of the buildings for support, finally bursting out into uncontrollable guffaws of laughter had actually _hurt _coming up. Half afraid that he might have actually pulled something in the effort of holding it back.

His sudden amusement had only been heightened however as Rorschach shadowed him down the alley, still muttering on reproachfully about unfaithfulness and the fickle nature of women in general, until the grumbles slowly devolved into a wordless hums and lengthily base syllabus that _might_ have just been that of _amusement._

_He had laughed so hard that he damn near cried._

Grinning fondly, he even forgot to complain as he caught sight of the deluge still coming down through a brief glimpse out the store windows. _It certainly showed no sign of halting any time soon. _Instead, looking to delay the inevitable soaking for as long as humanly possible, he began adding to his cart with deliberate slowness, unsticking the labels and sometimes even going so far as to read out the directions full before chucking them in.

In fact, he was so intent on his weather related distraction that he nearly toppled a cardboard display staged at the end of the oral hygiene aisle when his cart picked up an unexpected burst of speed and slipped out of his unsuspecting fingers. It was something about scientifically proven toothbrush bristles, with the sign depicting smiling children with trademark toothy grins holding up brand new toothbrushes as kindly paternal figures looked fondly on. It was all bright colors and fake smiles that had been air brushed into the epitome of picturesque, suburban perfection. _Nixon would have been proud._

_Rorschach would have had a field day._

And predictably, the thought actually reminded him of a conversation that he and Rorschach had shared just the night before. They had been surveying a series of empty side streets in the warehouse and factory district, scoping out the possibility of a money laundering operation being housed in one of the countless abandoned buildings in the vicinity. They had been working the case on and off for nearly four weeks and frustrations were understandably high. Ripe with the kind of tension that inevitably descends just before the whole thing ends up blowing up in your face.

_Sometimes even literally._

So suffice it to say, they had both been getting a bit antsy. Indeed, almost painfully bored he had been lost in thought. Perched atop a rust-incrusted intake vent and dwelling on the rather discomforting thought of the oncoming anniversary of his late father's death, when beside him, completely out of the blue, Rorschach started ranting about "coupon cutters and guilty father figures."

It took him a moment to realize that _no_, Rorschach _hadn't_ spontaneously acquired the ability to read minds, but that his sudden barrage of words was actually in response to the high-rise billboard erected across the street from them. Personally he hadn't given it a second thought when he'd initially seen it, seeing it as no different from any of the dozen or so different billboards and advertisements one sees every day.

Only this time Rorschach seemed to have taken particular offence to it, so much so that he broke his nearly hour long silence in favour of verbally shredding the hapless advertisement from top to bottom. _He had nearly winced in sympathy. _The feature boldly advertised the latest model convertible from Ford, while the smiling visages of fresh faced teens jingled brand new car keys towards envious looking friends superimposed into the background.

He still didn't completely follow, but with Rorschach that was pretty much par for the course. So instead, he just grinned into his cowl and proceeded to nod in the appropriate places as the man continued on with his increasingly disconnected rant about corporate media control and the spoiled children.

_..In many ways he had come to realize that Rorschach was a lot like the epitome of the world's most perfect song. Except that the song itself was only played at the most imperfect of times.._

And as he continued to stroll down the aisles, placing the odd item in the cart as he went, he gave his thoughts their heads. Not completely surprised when they cycled back to an issue that had been on his mind often of late. _That of the man himself. _But it wasn't just the man, it was _everything_ about him. Everything he knew, but mostly everything that he didn't. (Which even he had to admit was a truly staggering amount.)

For example, was it really asking so much for a mere glimpse of the man's face? Or perhaps the hint of a name that had given rather then constructed? Even he had to admit that the double standard was becoming increasingly galling.

'_Neurotic little bastard.' _He thought with a small frown, trying and utterly failing to make the inner exclamation sound anything other then inexcusably fond.

But even then the emotion itself all mixed up in a complex concoction that had him half wondering if he even had a snowballs chance in _hell _of ever understanding it in the first place. And not to put too fine a point on it, but _also_ realizing that he was playing host to more then a few niggling little feelings that he was half afraid to even _venture_ into exploring right now….

_Because for Christ sakes, this __**was**__ still Rorschach after all!_

**A/N #1:** Please let me know what you think, and indeed if I should continue? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

**Glossary:**

*The term_: 'Beyond the pale': _Is a phrase that meaning something along the lines of: Inappropriate, rude or simply unusual.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Watchmen or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Warnings:** This is a story that connects to the movie-verse version of Watchmen. It is meant to connect to the universe of this fandom _before_ the Keene Act (Cannon 1977). *****I see this fiction as a sort of snapshot moment in both characters lives. One of those normal, relatively everyday moments that I figured might make an interesting character study. This is a Daniel centric-fic, with light Nite Owl II/Rorschach slash. Not your cup of tea? I suggest you pass it by. Still with me? Fabulous!

**Authors Note #1:** Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

**Authors Note #2:** _**Writermousie**_ I like to respond to all my reviews, so here is a quick one since you reviewed anonymously and I want to touch on what you said. I appreciated both your review and your opinion. You bring up a valid point. The way that I sometimes write is certainly not for everyone. But that being said, your review made me take a second look at this chapter and its content, more alert for overly superfluous phrases and words as long as removing them _didn't_ take away from the general flow and expression of the chapter. So, thank you for the constructive criticism!

_**The Aisles in Between**_

_**Chapter 3**_

He sucked in a long frustrated breath, blunt fingers raking across his scalp, sending half damp curls flopping over his temples in every which way. Not even noticing when a wayward tuft was left sticking up on its own, the rest of the hair around it left strangely flattened by his irritated hands.

_He was getting damn well sick and tired of this…Whatever this daft thing actually was! _He hated it!

The sensation of being caught on the verge of something he desperately wanted to understand…and yet, at the same time, inherently feared as well. Uncertain of what such a revelation might actually mean.._About himself..about them..about everything.._

_Hell, it was maddening!_

And he wondered off hand if perhaps Rorschach had it right after all. Living in that perfectly constructed, black and white world of his. Where everything was sure, and carefully defined into neat little categories. _Where it was either good versus evil or right versus wrong._ No second guessing, no uncertainty, only solid definable truth with none of that pesky grey area.

_Except that was a load of absolute horse shit and he __**knew**__ it. _

Rorschach had _created_ that view of the world; it was how he survived from day to day admist a world he simply did not understand. _It was a sort of ultimate coping method if you will, like a security blanket or a child's night light. _And the truth was that deep down, he was sure that even Rorschach himself was aware of it. That it was all a grand allusion. A magnificent farce created in order to keep away the worst monster of them all…_That of truth_.

_Because life, by its very nature is the ultimate of grey areas. _

But to Rorschach, that was a chaos that he simply could not accept. _The innate fluidity of life. _That life, by it's sole defining characteristics cannot be diminished into something as simple as a yes or no answer. Or an equation that only has a single answer. It was a lack of _control_.. A lack of _understanding_ that was admittedly frightening if dwelled upon for too long. And he supposed that was one of the primary reasons why Rorschach had become who he was today. Striving to understand..to regain control over some aspect of his life he believed had been lost.

_It explained quite a lot actually._

But on the other hand, everything else aside, he was the first one to admit that he was completely and undeniably enamoured with the man. Both fascinated and frustrated in turn by literally every action and aspect of the man himself. Because seemingly by his very nature, the man was absolutely indefinable, whether in visage or function it was always the same. _A fluid, ever changing persona that bowed down to neither man, nor any other worldly force._

He was a man of strict principals, yet he was a complete walking contradiction in of himself. All harsh edges and barely contained violence, yet if one cared to look deeply enough, they might also realize that he was undeniably broken as well. _Human. _Indeed perhaps he was all too human. The result of mankind's ability to fail even it's own._ Especially it's own._

He supposed that what it all really came down to was the fact that far too many people simply took Rorschach at face value. And in doing so, they never really got the chance to know the man himself. Though, he supposed that Rorschach probably preferred it that way anyway.

_Rorschach wasn't exactly the poster boy for the utmost pinnacles of tact and flawless social graces after all…_

With a somewhat deprecating smile he twirled the cart around the corner, curving towards the next aisle with an ear rending shriek of oxidizing metal and idle flair, trying not to think about anything much in particular when he caught a glimpse of the scene outside. There was a veritable sea of umbrellas bobbing swiftly past. The domes of each only just visible through the pelting rain, as their harried owners fought their way through the growing afternoon crowds.

_Damn. It was __**still**__ coming down!_

And as he watched, he slowly became aware that his limbs were _actually_ twitching, feet moving restlessly as his hands made abortive little movements on the handle of the cart, alive with a sudden burst of nervous energy. As if they themselves were somehow conscious of the passing hours, and what the coming of the evening would indubitably bring.

And not for the first time, he realized how utterly dull his life had been before Rorschach. _Before the Watchmen. _Back when thoughts of fighting crime in skin tight spandex and reinforced Kevlar were all but hysterical. Nights when he _didn't_ come home without an irrepressible grin still affixed across his lips even as he threw himself head long into a well deserved shower, muscles screeching in protest even as his body thrummed with the lingering aftershocks of adrenaline.

_The sensation itself taking him higher then any drug ever could. _

In the days _before_ he realized that he wasn't just _good_ with his hands, but that he _craved_ the practice as well. It was damn near addictive. Whether it was in curving his shoulders into a bone breaking blow, or coming face first with one of the ship's malfunctioning systems, spending all day elbow deep in engine coolant and mechanic's grease, he realized now that he had _never _been happier.

_God help him, but he loved it._

Because with it, brought the days when Rorschach would appear at random, ghosting down from the sewer tunnels above as he tinkered around in the basement with his latest project. Moments where he would stop, look up and grin. His smile all too genuine as he wiped his hands across what _used_ to be one of his mother's good linen towels in order shake the man's hand. Watching as he canted his head, and '_hrrmmed'_ agreeably in response, his tone easy and almost indulgent as he leaned down to inspect whatever oddity or half bundle finished blue prints were cluttering up his work desk _this_ time.

It was on days like this that their easy banter and off hand conversation would eventually subside into a comfortable silence that was only punctuated by the periodic passing of tools and the odd comment from Rorschach himself. The man inquiring perhaps about one of the ship's systems or the exact workings of some aspect of the design that he wished to learn. Something which in turn would inevitably lead to the both of them being wedged halfway up one of the air intake valves, fiddling around with the air conditioning system purely for the hell of it. The cascading echoes of their voices bouncing into tinny obscurity in the close space, melding together until the only voice you could hear was one.

…_It made him hope that this would never end. He doubted he could bear it if it did. Or that he could even cope with having to go back to a normal, exceedingly average life. Especially given what he had both seen and done. _Because in a very real way, he finally had what he had always wanted. _Purpose._

He was just turning away from the shelves, having finally decided on gauze balls over cotton swabs, when out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of an abrupt flash of movement. But when he whirled to meet it, he was surprised to see that the small, red haired man was now inexplicably staring at him from across the aisle.

_Christ, the man was fast! He hadn't even heard the man approach!_

…But for his part the man simply glared back, eyes merciless and entirely unapologetic…

Unsure as to how to respond to such a raw and disconcerting stare, he simply blinked back unassumingly, his smile slightly wary but still unfailingly polite as he tracked the gaze of the man's unfathomably bright blue eyes. They were eyes that had always made him feel as though he was being weighed and measured, a gaze that was quietly critical and altogetherly impossible to break.

"Can I help you?" He finally asked, his brow knitting itself into a puzzled expression, even as his lips formed a tentative smile. Hands crushing the bag of cotton balls into his chest like a shield.

The words seemed to break the oppressive and almost anticipatory silence that had fallen over them both. But certainly not the surreal nature of the moment, because a second later, with a weirdly disappointed air, the man simply turned up his chin, his shoulders bristling upwards in an impressive hunch before he turned around and stalked off. Leaving him alone in the aisle with a surprise slackened jaw, and only his own tumultuous thoughts for company.

_What the hell?_

He watched the man go incredulously, shaking his head in muted amusement as the man's slightly ungainly gait took him quickly down the aisle, around the corner, and out of sight. Leaving only a murky trail of muddied up boot prints in his wake.

And for reasons entirely beyond him, the entire affair actually reminded him of Rorschach when he was in a mood. All muted tension and understated anger. Like the base support of a multi level bridge on the verge of collapse, riddled through with the acidic bite of untreated rust and stress line fractures.

Though, if he was being entirely honest with himself, which recently was becoming only more and more difficult, lately, whenever he happened to see him, the sign bearing homeless man seemed to remind him of no one else.

It had gotten to the point that he couldn't even help it any more. Because no matter what he told himself, this man, with his harsh, angular features and distrustful aloofness was what he had _always_ imagined Rorschach would look like… A strange mix of cacophonous contradictions housed in well worn skin. An appearance made up of colliding extremes and jagged edges. All wrapped up in a core of unfathomable mystery, innate strength, and long ignored personal weakness.

_Even now, the comparison was so stark that he nearly shivered under the bulky obscurity of his overcoat._

He knew by experience that the man didn't accept money, always turning his nose up when it was offered, staring back at the helpless person of the moment with barely veiled distain. As if he were somehow better then virtually everyone else he happened to pass.

_It was remarkably refreshing now that he thought about it. _

Because he was fairly sure that the man did nothing with his time save for pacing the streets with that same, weather beaten old sign. Holding it ever aloft as he proclaimed the end of the world on cracked, white washed plywood and fading black paint. Yet, despite this he always carried himself as if he had some other, far greater purpose. _Something that put him above the merger masses._ Initially he had simply assumed that the man was some sort of night time deviant with an ego fit to match his stubborn, hard edged personality. But lately, he'd come to think that perhaps there was more to the man then what he outwardly portrayed. What that might be, he had no idea, and the man himself never seemed that inclined to share.

Inevitably he supposed he would have to chalk it up to one of life's eternal mysteries, something slowly forgotten with the passage of time, dismissed as a mere oddity..or a moment of strange deja vu rather then the enticing conundrum that it actually was. But for now he found that he couldn't help but stare, watching the man through the thickness of his overly large glasses whenever they passed out on the street, alert for something he wasn't quite sure how to express.

And as foolish as it was he couldn't quite seem to shake the idea. Of course it didn't help that seemingly whenever he crossed the street to pick up the paper, the man was never far behind, stalking out of the unlit shadows, or slinking down around the corner of the opposite street, waiting silently for that strange, obscure little paper that no one seemed to know anything about save for himself and the vendor.

_It was enough to make any well adjusted man a titch bit paranoid. _

Though he supposed that the term 'well adjusted' ended up sounding somewhat laughable when it came from a man who was a tenure Ornithologist by day, and a crime fighter who dressed up in a skin tight costume reminiscent of a Barn Owl at night. _For Christ sakes! He went arse naked under his Kevlar_!

So really, at the end of the day, he figured he shouldn't be one to judge.

He shook his head pragmatically. Thick fingers clicking rhythmically across the plastic handles of the cart in front of him, now loaded halfway full with more supplies then he had originally intended on purchasing to begin with.

…And the next time he looked up, he couldn't help but blink nearsightedly into the sudden stillness. Because somewhere along the line, probably in between thoughts of the strange red haired man, Rorschach, and the merits of saltine based wound cleanser versus that of rubbing alcohol, it had _finally_ stopped raining….

**A/N #1:** Please let me know what you think. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! Sorry this chapter took so long to get up. I had it done mid week but my internet went out Tuesday afternoon and it is still not back up yet. So, I am sitting in my car painstakingly checking my emails and etc, and posting this chapter while stealing some poor schmucks signal. See, I love you guys THAT much.

**A/N #2:** This is the second last chapter, so one more chapter to go and this puppy is done!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Watchmen or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Warnings:** This is a story that connects to the movie-verse version of Watchmen. It is meant to fit in to the universe of this fandom _before_ the Keene Act (Cannon 1977). *****I see this fiction as a sort of snapshot moment in both characters lives. One of those normal, relatively everyday moments that I figured might make an interesting character study. This is a Daniel centric-fic, with light Nite Owl II/Rorschach slash. Not your cup of tea? I suggest you pass it by. Still with me? Fabulous!

**Authors Note #1:** This story is now finished. And I just wanted to say thank you to all my reviewers! Your support has been absolutely excellent!

_**The Aisles in Between**_

_**Chapter 4**_

Rorschach could have literally doubled as a time piece, having all the precise, mathematical grace of the nature of time itself. All melded together with the sensation of heady permanence and the ever changing hint of profound mystery. Unknowable function with definable purpose.. _Einstein himself would have been proud._

In fact he had the sneaking suspicion that the man actually coveted the practise, admiring the precise, seemingly unfaultable nature of time itself. It was something that could be seen as permanent and almost tangible in a growingly chaotic and uncertain world. _Something that could be touched and known.. Something that could be understood, and in that way, also controlled. _

In a way he actually understood it. A life based on principals that could be defined and understood, an adherence to functionality and logic. It was almost comforting in a strange, surreal sort of way.

So, much like almost every evening these days he was hardly surprised when Rorschach ghosted up the basement stairs close to thirty minutes early, his mask and fedora impeccably placed as always. Clucking his tongue and grumbling under his breath as he closed the door behind him, turning to see him still working his way through a hastily thrown together supper. Completely unmasked, and unapologetically decked out in his civilian clothes.

Hell even the unloaded bags from the pharmacy were still shoved half forgotten underneath the kitchen table at his feet. With the raspy crinkle of shifting cellophane packages and quiet _glush-glush_ from the bottles of rubbing alcohol below providing a rather unique soundtrack, that somehow seemed to fit the scene _just _right.

_Funny how times flies sometimes..._

And much like any other night he only grinned back. Taking the man's well meant criticism with good humour, greeting his partner pleasantly as he abandoned his plate and crossed over to the oven. Plucking out a warming tray piled high with leftovers before waving it about in high fashion, letting the savoury smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding waft across the room as he feigned a depreciating smile.

"Dinner? I went and made too much again." He said in way of offer, lying through his teeth without a second thought. Because he only had eyes for the way the man's coat hung just a little too loose around his shoulders, concaving inwards around in chest in a way that made him hungry just _thinking_ about it.

Rorschach wasn't eating well again. _He could tell. _And what was worse was that he knew well enough by now, that if it was showing enough for _him_ to notice, then it must be a pretty lean month indeed. Damn the man and his inability to ask for help! They were partners for Christ sakes.. _Didn't that mean something? Anything?_

"_Ah-ha. Gotcha this time." _He thought would a satisfied air, suppressing a knowing grin when the man halted. That cut off snub nose of his twitching visibly under the shifting ink as the man consider the offer.

With Rorschach he had learned, albeit it through increasingly frustrating experience, that one had to phrase the invitation correctly in order to gain a favourable response.

As with all the aloft pickiness of a veritable feline, he had known Rorschach to refuse the offer of food on sheer principal alone. Despite, he had to add, being visibly tempted.

_Rorschach could be remarkably prickly about that sort of thing. _

Even then however, the outcome was always up in the air. There was always the chance that despite all logic and common sense, the man might actually refuse. It was damn near insufferable. He had never met anyone so god damned frustrating!

This time however, it seemed as though Rorschach had it in his mind to concede, only nodding and favouring him with an appreciative grunt as he grew out the chair opposite to his, dropping into it with a careless sort of grace he had always secretly envied before rolling his mask up to the bridge of his nose, fork and knife flashing towards the plate before he had even finished setting it down.

_It seemed as though he did a lot of cooking 'leftovers' these days._

Strangely, it was these moments, time spent purely in each others company, simply enjoying the tentative atmosphere that had slowly begun to descend, that he had come to look forward to the most. They were moments that screamed such warm, easy going domesticity..such _connection_ that it caused something lodged deep down in his chest to _ache_. Thudding uncomfortably hard, high in his breast until he forced his thoughts away, thinking of other, far less complicated things.

Moments where he realized that perhaps his newly founded habit of making more at dinner of late, might not_ just _be due to his concern over Rorschach's general health and well being. Just as Rorschach's small, but growingly companionable inflections on patrol, all familiar hands and the occasionally needless brushes against his shoulders might not solely be that of simple friendship.

_It was enough to make a man's head spin.._ _And he'd be lying if he didn't admit that the whole thing set his teeth on edge.. Could that really mean that-..?_

A short time later, after they had finished up dinner, they were halfway down the basement stairs, already deep in discussion over how to proceed on their stake out in the factory district. It was time to make a move. Especially since in the last few nights, the operation had been showing serious signs of growing to include a second chapter located clear across the city. The front runners of the gang were obviously looking to expand both their holdings and profits, only this time they had no idea that their little scam was already well on it's way to being little more then hearsay and scuttlebutt behind the iron clad thickness of a nine by nine cell and high topped, barb wire fences.

They were bouncing around infiltration strategies and more in depth surveillance options when Rorschach turned his head _just so_ in response to a remark he had made. And like the electric spit from a live wire, all of a sudden that strange feeling of deja vu he had been working through all evening suddenly struck home. The sheer force it of causing him to pause in place, poised halfway down the stair well with his cowl pushed back and Kevlar gauntlets only half laced up.

And before he had a moment to realize how utterly ridiculous the thought actually was, with an oblivious, and somewhat victorious snap of his fingers, he found himself uncharacteristically _blurting_ it out. Like it was some sort of compulsion.. Something that was all but screaming to be heard..

"I saw someone that reminded me of _**you**_ in the Pharmacy today!" He crowed. Goggles hanging by a mere finger and he paused in mid step. Unaccountably appeased at finally figuring the bothersome feeling out…

Only he just couldn't figure it out when Rorschach, who had been walking down the stairs just ahead of him stopped _dead_. And he couldn't help but watch as every muscle that lined the man's back abruptly stiffened. The harsh angles of his tan trench hitching upwards, as if shoring himself up for some long expected blow, even as the worn material of his signature leather gloves creaked ominously. With Rorschach's fingers tightening so hard around the thick metals railings that he swore he heard the man's knuckles creak.

_..Christ. Some days he swore…__** Just**__ when he thought he was finally beginning to make progress.. that he would __**never**__ fully understand what went on in Rorschach's head!_

**A/N #1:** Please let me know what you think. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!


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